The Replacement Wife (3 page)

After she’d told the story, Camille glanced at her watch. A quarter to three. She’d have to leave now if she was to get to the doctor’s in time. Her stomach twisted. Never mind the results of the last two PET scans had showed no recurrence of her cancer, she was never able to face that moment of truth without a sense of dread. She rose, signaling the interview was at an end.

“Call if you have any more questions,” she said, shaking the blonde’s hand.

“Thanks for your time. I’ll let you know when the article comes out. Oh, one more thing,” she said as Camille was turning to go. Camille heard the note of hesitation in her voice and thought,
Here it comes
. She’d been expecting it since the moment she’d laid eyes on Yvonne Vickers.

“Yes?” she said, maintaining a pleasant, neutral expression so as not to betray her thoughts.

Yvonne confirmed her suspicion by blushing to the roots of her highlighted hair and asking. “Just out of curiosity. Do you, um, have anyone you think might be right for me?”

CAMILLE’S HEMATOLOGIST-ONCOLOGIST GREETED
her with the usual dose of cheer. “Camille, you’re the only woman I know who manages to look fresh as a daisy even when it’s pouring rain outside.”

The same could be said of Regina Hawkins, MD. However frazzled or harried, she always looked as if she’d stepped out of an ad for Oil of Olay. Her tawny skin glowed like burnished sandalwood. Her black hair, pulled back in a bun, was as smooth as if naturally straight. Only her alert brown eyes hinted at what lay beneath the smooth exterior. They seemed to impart a challenge of some kind, as if she were mentally laying down the gauntlet.
Cancer, you may think you’ve got this patient beat, but I’m one badass doctor you’re not going to want to mess with.

“It comes from being on intimate terms with my car service,” replied Camille with a laugh.

“How’s the shoulder?”

“Still a little sore. I’m sure it’s nothing. You know us Type A’s, we tend to overdo it at the gym. It’s probably just a pulled muscle.” Camille massaged her right shoulder, wincing slightly.

Her doctor nodded slowly, offering no comment. “Why don’t we step into my office?”

Camille tensed up again. Her fate awaited her. What would it be, the lady or the tiger? The discomfort of the test itself, lying perfectly still for an hour inside the scanner while the radionuclide that had been injected into bloodstream did its work, seemed a minor inconvenience compared to the gut-churning anxiety of waiting for the results. Then, she’d imagined her body a traveler en route to an undisclosed destination. Now she’d arrived.

Regina’s office was more homey than officelike, with its handsome furnishings and beautiful old Berber rug over polished floorboards, its walls covered in cream wallpaper flecked with pale blue, which made her think of vanilla ice cream topped with sprinkles, and hung with watercolors painted by Regina’s husband, a well-known artist. She headed for the cozy seating arrangement where she and her doctor had sat on numerous prior occasions, discussing test results and treatment options while sipping tea. Even on a rainy day, the room was filled with light, and though the view out the mullioned windows was of the hospital across the street where she’d spent so many bleak hours, she was heartened by signs of spring: new grass and rows of tulips and daffodils, which fluttered in the breeze like bright-colored pennants heralding a grand opening.

Regina sat down across from her and pulled a set of computer-generated prints from a manila envelope that bore the return address of the radiology lab. Wordlessly, she spread them out on the table in front of Camille, like a fortune-teller laying out Tarot cards. Camille stared at them. Over the past year, she’d become as adept as a medical professional at reading test results, so she knew instantly what she was looking at. Time slowed to a standstill. She felt a vein at the base of her neck start to throb. At last, she lifted her head and looked her hematologist-oncologist in the eye.

“Does this mean what I think it means?”

CHAPTER TWO

“B
each, or are you more interested in sightseeing?” asked the travel agent, a trim blonde in a blue suit and gold earrings, whose colors mirrored those in the poster on the wall behind her, of some tropical vacation destination: blue sky, sunny beach. A beach, strangely, without tourists.

Edward smiled and shook his head, contemplating the poster. “I’m not really sure, to be honest.” His and Camille’s last vacation was . . . what? Anguilla, the Cap Juluca resort, four anniversaries ago. Between their busy schedules and the children, it seemed there was never a good time to get away. Then, this past year, it became impossible. The weeks and months were consumed with tests and procedures and hospital stays, not just the usual demands. There had been no talk of the future, then; it had been enough just to get by day to day. He felt the old burning in his ribcage at the memory, and fought the urge to press a hand to his chest—he didn’t want the travel agent to think he was having a heart attack—straightening his tie instead.
No sense dwelling on the past.
Camille was fine now. No reason they couldn’t plan a getaway. “I’d ask my wife, but I want it to be a surprise. We’re celebrating our anniversary next month.”

“Oh?” The woman brightened. “Is it a big one?”

He nodded his head. “Our twentieth.”

“Well, that makes it even more special. Let’s see . . .” Her hand skimmed over the stacks of glossy brochures on her desk before she selected one and handed it to Edward. “What about a cruise?”

He glanced at the brochure, suppressing a shudder. “I’m not much of one for cruises.” He’d never been on one, but as he eyed the photo on the brochure all he could see was a floating hotel from which there was no escape, peopled with card-carrying AARP members and featuring endless games of shuffleboard and all-you-can-eat buffets. Besides, the entire time Camille would be schmoozing up the other passengers—not exactly the second honeymoon he had in mind. He set the brochure aside. “I’m thinking maybe the beach.”

“Well, that leaves us plenty of options,” she said.
Us?
He envisioned the trim blonde in the blue suit trotting alongside him and Camille as they made their way down the ramp at the airport. “I could get you a honeymoon package. It’s near the end of the season, so there are lots of deals. What about Bermuda? The weather’s nice, and it shouldn’t be too crowded this time of year.”

“Bermuda?” He considered it while absently rubbing his chin, which was scratchy with beard stubble—no matter how closely he shaved in the mornings, he always came home from work looking like an extra in a gangster movie. “Isn’t that where they have the pink sand?”

“Why, yes.” She beamed at him. “In fact, there’s a lovely hotel on the South Shore that might interest you . . .” With a few keystrokes on her computer, she summoned up the hotel website, which showed a sandy beach the color of the laundry after he’d thrown the whites in with the colors (he was as bad at housekeeping, he’d discovered when Camille was ill, as he was at cooking), lapped by turquoise water, a cluster of cottages perched on the hillside above. “I could see if one of the ocean-view cottages is available, if you like.” He eyed her fingers on the keyboard, poised to strike, and shook his head.

“Let me think about it.” Already, he was regretting his impulse. He’d spotted the travel agency on his way home from work, and . . . well, it had seemed like a good idea at the time. God knew he and Camille could use a romantic getaway. He couldn’t recall the last time they’d so much as made love. But maybe surprising her with a trip to some exotic locale wasn’t the way to go about it. His mother, with her old-country superstitions, would call it tempting fate. “I’ll get back to you,” he said, rising to his feet.

Minutes later, he was striding along Amsterdam Avenue, headed back to his offices, at New York–Presbyterian. As he was leaving the travel agency he’d remembered the new batch of interns. They’d have that old crank Wendell Marsh, who covered up for his failing faculties by barking at everyone around him, for evening rounds if he didn’t offer to fill in (Marsh welcomed any excuse to shovel his workload onto others). It would keep the spark he’d seen in those eager, shiny-eyed faces from being trampled on, but Edward felt a ripple of guilt nonetheless. He ought to go home. Camille never complained about his long hours, but he knew it irked her. Another thing they didn’t talk about. What excuse could he give, anyway? The plain fact was he didn’t look forward to going home the way he used to before his wife became ill and almost died. It wasn’t her fault; none of it was anyone’s fault. But there it was. He loved his wife—that hadn’t changed and never would—but he felt as if he were continually holding his breath around her, looking up at the sky, knowing it could fall at any moment. It had once. It could do so again. Today, for instance, he’d been waiting to hear the results of the latest PET scan. He’d phoned Camille several times, but each time he’d gotten her voicemail. That, plus the fact that she hadn’t returned his calls, had him on edge, the ever-present fear, like a caged animal in the back of his mind, batting at its confines.

She’d have called if it was bad news,
he consoled himself. Still, he wouldn’t be able to relax until he knew for sure. He slowed his step, pulling his cell phone from his coat pocket. It had stopped raining, so thankfully he had no umbrella to juggle while he dialed. He frowned when, once more, the recorded message with his wife’s voice clicked on. Damn. Why wasn’t she picking up?

She was always available to her clients. He couldn’t recall the last time they’d gotten through an entire meal in a restaurant without her having to attend to her buzzing BlackBerry or cell phone. Sometimes they called late at night, usually in a panic over some minor incident. It was as if these grown men and women had been transported back in time to their high school years, with Camille as combination best friend and guidance counselor. Why did she have to hold their hands every step of the way?
It’s my job,
she’d always say.
It’s what I get paid to do.
But what about
him
? Why couldn’t she pick up the damn phone for own husband?

Don’t be a prick
. He blew out a breath, then when he could trust himself to speak in a normal voice, left another message. They both had demanding jobs; it wasn’t just Camille’s. All the more reason for a getaway. A week, ten days, would do them a world of good. He fingered the brochures the travel agent had given him as he was slipping the phone back into his pocket. He pictured himself strolling along that pink-sand beach in Bermuda with Camille. Afterward, they’d go back to their cottage and make love like they used to, back when the sight of her naked body stirred passion in him, not pity. When he didn’t have to shut his eyes to get aroused or keep from tearing up.

We’ll get there, my love,
he thought, quickening his step. It started to rain again, heavy drops splatting against his scalp as he ducked his head, making him wish now for his umbrella. Up ahead loomed the Harkness Pavilion, where his offices were. Its lit windows glowed in the gathering twilight, a beacon of hope for some, and for others the last they would see of this earth. For him, it was the refuge home had once been . . . and would be again, God willing. He missed the old days. Eating dinner with his family, then cuddling with his wife on the sofa, watching old movies on TV after the children had gone to bed. Someday soon, he vowed, he’d find his way back to that.

In the meantime, what better way to begin again than with a romantic getaway? The question was where? He smiled to himself as he contemplated it. That should be their biggest problem.

CAMILLE ARRIVED HOME
shortly before seven p.m. to find her children on the sofa in front of the TV and her husband nowhere in evidence. She hung her dripping Burberry on the antique coat rack in the vestibule. “Hey, what’s this? Don’t you have homework?” she called to Kyra and Zach. She was careful to inject a stern note into her voice. She didn’t want them to suspect anything was wrong.

Zach acknowledged her with a grunt, not taking his eyes off the TV, while Kyra, who like most teenagers was used to multitasking—at the moment, she was text-messaging one friend while talking on the phone with another—looked up at her with an innocent expression. “I
am
studying, Mom. Alexia’s helping me with my homework.” She gestured toward the textbook that lay open on her lap. It was unclear whether Alexia was the friend she was talking to on the phone or the one she was texting. “Oh, and FYI, Dad called. He said to tell you he had to work late.”

Camille already knew this from the last message he’d left on her voicemail. Normally, it would have annoyed her, but right now she was too numb to care. Earlier, she’d thought about calling him, but then she’d have had to explain why she was in a bar on Lexington Avenue, drinking a gin and tonic at an hour when she was usually home with the kids, and she didn’t want to have to break the news to him over the phone. Funny, though, even after two gin and tonics she didn’t feel the least bit drunk. Stranger still, she noticed as she stooped to retrieve a stray sock—one of Zach’s—from under the coffee table, she had no feeling in her fingers; they were as numb as the rest of her.

Leaving the children to their devices, Camille walked through the adjoining sitting room and dining room beyond on her way to the kitchen. The apartment, a classic nine in one of the gracious prewar buildings that lined West End Avenue, was almost sinfully large by Manhattan standards. She and Edward had bought it as a fixer-upper when she was pregnant with Kyra, and she recalled thinking she’d never have enough stuff to fill all its rooms. Now, fifteen years later, the spacious apartment, chockablock with furnishings and knickknacks and strewn with evidence of growing children as it’d once been with their toys—backpacks and Rollerblades, shoes and items of clothing, a hand-held Gameboy (Zach’s) here, a shiny pink iPod (Kyra’s) caught in a tangle of wires there—felt, like Baby Bear’s chair, just right somehow.